


Pretense

by StrangeDays



Category: Thor (Movies)
Genre: Angst galore, Gen, Loki being Loki, Odin's solid B+ parenting skills, attempted familial bonding
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-22
Updated: 2014-07-22
Packaged: 2018-02-09 22:00:38
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,093
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1999473
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/StrangeDays/pseuds/StrangeDays
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Odin approaches Loki in the dungeons, in an attempt to make peace with him.  It goes about as well as could be expected.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Pretense

The contingent of men guarding the prisons had been doubled.

More rebels had been brought in today, from a skirmish in Vanaheim, and most of the cells were now packed to their full capacity.

Though, it had been relatively calm tonight, all things considered.

Prisoners lounged idly in their over-crowded cages, eyeing the guards darkly as they went past. Most men were quietly eating the evening meal, fully absorbed in their plates, though some sparse, low conversation did punctuate the heavy silence every now and again.

Suddenly, the semi-peaceful lull was interrupted by a loud burst of angry shouts.

Two brutes had begun arguing, bellowing back and forth in a furious discord that threatened imminent violence.

In his cell, Loki was abruptly jolted out of a deep, dreamless sleep.

The trickster groaned in irritation, lazily rolling over onto his back. This was the fourth time in as many days that he’d been awoken by infighting amongst the common, unsavory lot occupying the cells near his own.

It was growing quite tiresome, really.                  

Wondering what the fuss was about this time, he blearily gazed across the way, only to find two criminals in a heated argument over food rations. One of the men was accusing the other of stealing food off of his plate, apparently, while his back was turned. Loki curled his lip. What a truly pathetic thing to make a fuss about.

He watched with detached revulsion as the more loutish of the men suddenly took hold of his cellmate and began smashing his face into the floor, over and over again. The weaker man was a bloody mess, leaving splattering trails of foul, glistening red all over the formerly pristine surfaces of Odin’s magical cage.

 A cacophony of harsh voices filled the air as the other inmates encouraged the aggressor, noisily hooting, catcalling.

“Animals”, Loki disdainfully muttered to himself. He sat up on his padded cot, arching his long spine, working out the kinks.

Serenely, he rose, turning away from the violent scene outside of his cell. The idiotic brawling of mindless thugs was of no consequence to him, after all.

He strolled over to the corner, to begin perusing the sadly limited collection of books that had been allowed him. They were mostly academic tomes, some concerning history, others culture or politics. There were two volumes of folk tales from Vanaheim. All diverting enough, he supposed, but certainly not what he would have chosen from his library.    

He sighed resignedly. Without looking, he pulled a tome from the haphazard pile upon the floor.

“ _Inter-Realm Wartime Negotiations and Their Long-Term Effects Upon Interstellar Law”_ wasa boring treatise he had long ago been forced to read when he had still been a false heir to a throne of lies. It was as good as any other book currently in his possession, he supposed.

He began to make his way back towards the horrible cot, as it was the only seat that had been provided for him.  

Suddenly, however, he was distracted by more shouts, and running, and the loud clattering of weapons against armor.

He grinned wickedly to himself. It appeared that the guards had finally gotten around to intervening. Now _this_ would be fun to watch.

Book forgotten, Loki collapsed upon the rock-hard mattress, gleefully surveying the chaos unfolding as if he were a spectator at the theater.

The trickster was thoroughly entertained as he observed the guards, struggling to contain a cage full of angry, riled prisoners. He chuckled delightedly to himself as the situation

continued to unravel before his eyes.

A small knot of overzealous criminals rallied together in an attempt to attack the guards, obviously believing that their superior numbers would give them the advantage.

They were mistaken in that. The Asgardian warriors swiftly surrounded the aggressors and formed an impassable perimeter, beating back all who attempted to breach it.     

It did not take long for the fickle prisoners to give up. Once they realized they would not be escaping this day, most of them simply shuffled back into their crowded cell,

defeated.  

Loki sighed when he realized that the show had come to an end. He watched the two who had started it all being roughly led away by a contingent of guards, to be placed into

separate cages.

The trickster smirked as he watched them go. Fierce Asgardian soldiers were separating two grown men for fighting, as if they were unruly schoolchildren who had been caught

tussling in the grass.  

            He chuckled, always amused by the antics of fools and simple brutes.

Since the entertainment appeared to be over for now, he picked up his book and began reading the dull introduction, a heavy-handed lecture preaching about the importance of

open communication in times of war:

“ _Should there ever come to be a war that spans the realms, it shall be an ever-important task to understand the nature of one’s allies, as well as the nature of one’s enemies. A king should always be wary of their opponents, and know their culture, intimately. This shall aid with invasion, as well as peace-time treaty negotiations. The nature of negotiations between rulers is crucial, for one ignorant barb or unintended insult could mean the difference between a battle, and a devastating, years-long war. Always be prudent_.”    

            Loki began slowly, methodically grinding his teeth. It was the tone of the prose that aggravated him, perhaps. He could practically hear Odin’s voice in the printed words,

lecturing him, training him, readying him to rule, though only ever as Asgard’s puppet king in the frozen wasteland that was Jotenheim.

Loki shut the thin, hard-bound treatise with an audible snap. He had no desire to read, suddenly. None at all.  

“Good day, Prince Loki.”

The captain of the guard was approaching his cell. A stoic warrior in his middle years, the hale, muscled soldier was confident and brash and loyal, traits that always seemed to remind him so much of Thor.

It always made Loki want to antagonize him. He simply couldn’t help himself.

The guard sketched a quick, yet respectful, bow as he came to stand before Loki. He was still a prince, after all, and as such, it was expected of the commoners to show him the proper respect, despite his incarceration.

            “Good day, captain”, Loki greeted him with a small nod, his manner unfailingly refined and elegant, the mien of royalty, born and bred.

“I was pleased to see you were not involved in today’s troubles, my prince”, the captain said, one hand resting firmly upon the pommel of a long-sword hanging from his hip belt.

“Oh, you needn’t worry about me involving myself with this rabble”, he replied, razor-edged laughter bubbling out from between his lips, “They are unworthy of my interest.”

            The man nodded once, stoically. “I do hope they _remain_ so, Prince.” His dark eyes ran over Loki’s face, as if taking the measure of him. “Asgardian nobility should not associate with such scum.”

Loki leered wickedly, in response to the guard’s patronizing tone. “No need to fret. I will be sure to inform you, should I change my mind on the matter.”

The captain’s lips tightened, though any thoughts he may have been entertaining went unspoken.

“I trust you have all you need, Prince Loki?” It was not an actual question, more a polite way of wrapping up an undesirable conversation.

The trickster sighed, bored. This man was simply no fun at all.

“Then, I shall leave you to carry on.” The captain bowed half-heartedly and began to turn away.

“If you would be so inclined, good captain”, Loki called the guard back before he could make his escape, “please do feel free to pass my reassurances on to Odin AllFather, concerning today’s events. You may wish to tell him that, unlike these foul ingrates”, he absently gestured towards his neighbors, “ _I_ harbor no ill intent towards my jailers, nor towards Asgard herself.” He smirked amusedly, as if he had just recounted a particularly funny joke.            

            The captain watched Loki for a long, uncomfortable moment, eyes narrowed in open suspicion. Finally, he gave a solemn nod. “I will tell him so”, he said, “Good day, Prince Loki.”

            “Good day, captain”, Loki returned, turning away.

            He grinned. Honestly, toying with the guards never, _ever_ got old.

 

[xxxxxxx]

 

            Sitting straight-backed on his despised cot, Loki shifted about, trying to find a comfortable position despite the mattress’ unforgiving rigidity.

He had spent the past quarter-hour in cautious observation of the other prisoners. Something was going on in the other cells, something that he, in his isolation, was not privy to.

His incarcerated neighbors were moving about restlessly, like angry insects in a hive, talking over each other in an incomprehensible murmur that echoed off of the dungeon’s cold stone walls.           

The men seethed, complaining to each other in a low chorus of dark, angry mutters. Loki leaned forward slightly, intent upon trying to puzzle out what they could possibly be speaking of. Taking in their edgy, aggressive behavior, he began to wonder if another fight was imminent.

That possibility was quickly dismissed, however. He realized that the others were practically radiating an aura of anxiety, disguised as hostile antagonism. It was not rage that ruled them now, but fear.

Fear of what, he wondered?

It could be anything, really. Perhaps some fell news had reached their ears of impending executions. Or, the humiliation of public torture sessions.

None of this was unlikely. Torture, even death, was very probable, in fact. Loki well recalled how cruel the Aesir could be to prisoners of war, when they wished to be.

Pondering this, the trickster began noticing the other prisoners’ anxious glances, directed towards the far end of the dungeon’s central corridor.

Curious, he followed the nervous stares, leaning far forward to gain a better perspective. The prison guards, one and all, were lining up by the distant stairwell at the edge of the hall. They were standing at full attention, their weapons held stiffly before them, the metal gleaming in the mage-light given off by the cells.

Loki’s eyes narrowed. The guards only ever bothered with such pompous formality when those of noble or royal rank presented themselves at court. Though who, of the highborn, would deign to soil their expensive boots in this foul pit?

It was an enticing puzzle, to be sure. Loki began to absently tap his finger upon his lower lip, as he often did when brooding over a complicated problem.

There was no question that it would be someone exceedingly important, he thought, for he had never seen the prison guards so rigidly postured and grim-faced. Based upon this alone, the entirety of the lower court, including the knights, barons, dukes, and ladies could most likely be summarily excluded.

A thought suddenly occurred, uncomfortably whispering, scratching away at the back of his mind. It could not be his so-called _family_. No. He swallowed down a fit of manic laughter at the very idea.  

His _beloved_ family. What a strange and terrible joke the Norns had elected to play, when they cast him into Odin’s arms as a helpless babe.

A derisive sneer twisted his features as he pondered how easy it had been for them, all of them, to simply write him out of their lives. Having become an inconvenience, he had been cast aside, forgotten by all those who had once claimed to love him.

Odin no longer had any use for him, and so no longer seemed interested in keeping up any pretense that they were father and son. Thor, once his closest ally and friend, would surely kill him now without a second thought, in retribution for the damage done to a few of his oh-so-precious humans. As for Frigga-

His face twisted into a mask of pained, conflicted anger.  

Frigga had been forbidden from openly visiting with him. Regardless, she had secretly done so whenever she could in the months following his return, hoping to offer comfort, if nothing else. Of course, he had been too angry at the time to listen to anything she had to say, no matter the wisdom in her words. He had raged against every kindness she had showed him, shouting that he would delight in burning Asgard to the ground. He had sworn, again and again, that no one would be spared, that he would have vengeance for the lifetime of wrongs that had been done him.

Frigga’s wounded disappointment had been keenly felt. The clandestine visits had abruptly stopped, and she had not returned since.     

It mattered not, he told himself. She was not his mother. Not _truly_.  

He swallowed thickly, dropping an unfocused gaze to the floor before him.

Perhaps, he thought, he could expect the Warriors 3 and Sif instead, come to mock and deride their fallen prince, to spit insults and laugh at his lowly state. It would be very much like them to do so.

Loki took a breath, reminding himself that there was no point in frantically speculating. He would know soon enough, after all.

He stood perfectly still, hands clasped tightly behind his back, his features rigidly passive, revealing nothing.

Several minutes passed before distant footsteps were heard making their way slowly, steadily, down the stone steps.  It sounded like a number of men, outfitted in full battle armor.

Tense and wary, Loki listened as the company grew closer.

_\--closer. Guttural whispers. The distant scratching of claws on metal. Mocking laughter. Closer. CLOSER--_

He began to sweat. The sound of the approaching warriors was bringing back unpleasant memories of another cell, this one pitch-black and stinking, and closely patrolled by vicious Chitauri soldiers.

The trickster balled his hands into tight fists behind his back, trying to calm some of the panic rushing through him. It wasn’t working. A high, ragged gasp clawed its way out of his throat.                           

He was furious at his own display of weakness, the simpering of a terrified child cowering in the darkness. Quickly, forcefully, he clamped down upon his choking terror, concealing all vestiges of unease behind a mask of false tranquility.

Two well-armed guards chose that moment to emerge from the shadowy stairway, their weapons drawn and at the ready.

Loki tensed.  

He recognized these particular warriors. They were two of Odin Allfather’s personal guard.

The trickster watched in wide-eyed incredulity as a contingent of Odin’s private sentinels continued to file into the narrow hallway, their ornate armor contrasting with the more practical leather and mail donned by the common prison guards.    

Eventually, the stairwell emptied itself of its shining warriors. They formed a long, straight queue along the corridor, weapons poised respectfully over their well-formed chests.

A moment later, the Allfather himself emerged, Gungnir clasped tightly in his hand as he walked between the focused soldiers.

The trickster stared. What was he doing here?

Surely, he was not here to see him. He had not bothered to visit once since Loki had first been thrown into this pit over two years ago. So what, then?

Loki narrowly observed as Odin conferred quietly with the captain of the guard. At the end of their brief conversation, the captain bowed, hand on heart, and stepped back to join his men.  

The aged king strode past each of the brightly-lit cells, his sharp blue eye trained upon the magical barriers, gazing at the state of their upkeep with the critical eye of a ruler.

Loki stood unmoved, glaring, as the man who had once claimed to be his father walked past his cell without a word. Resentment flared in his gut at the blatant dismissal, though he knew he should not have expected anything more.

He was an enemy of Asgard now, after all. He would be treated as such.

It did not take long for Odin to finish his inspection. Once again, he conversed in low tones with the captain, who bowed respectfully, before dismissing his men with a few cursory words and a sweep of his hand.

Before departing himself, the decorated guard faced Loki’s cell and gave a tiny, almost unnoticeable nod of acknowledgement, accompanied by a self-assured smile. The trickster sneered at him as he walked away. He wondered just what the man had said to Odin to get him to come down here, personally.  

The prison guards scattered, returning to their duties once more, though the Allfather’s personal guard remained in place, a silent and steady presence, ever-vigilant.

Odin stepped up before his adopted son’s cell, a closed, unreadable expression upon his aged face.

“Hello, Loki”, he said evenly.

            Loki said nothing. He stared down at the man who had once been his father, wondering all the while if this was some elaborate hallucination, if he had finally, _finally_ lost his mind, after everything he’d been through.

            “Captain Faelis passed your message on to me”, Odin went on to explain, “And I must say, it pleased me to hear such things from you, even if your words were slightly derisive.”  

            Loki opened his mouth, then shut it again. He gave no reply. He had none to give.

            Odin ran a sharp gaze over Loki’s grim visage, as if searching for something. “I trust you are doing well? The weekly reports I receive detailing your condition have given me no cause to worry.”

            The trickster arched an elegant eyebrow, an overt display of incredulity. He doubted the existence of any such “reports”. Odin surely had no desire to read about the day-to-day incarceration of a cast-out Jotun runt.    

“You seem to have all the comforts one would require in such a place”, the Allfather mused, looking past the young prince to the cell beyond, “Your mother has furnished you with books, I see, as well as comfortable furniture.”

“A cell is a cell, regardless of its trappings”, the trickster coldly responded.

A frown creased Odin’s wizened face. “Indeed. Though, a cell is always better than the alternative.”

“Why all the sudden concern for your misbegotten foundling, Allfather?”, he raised an inquisitive eyebrow, “You never cared before.”

An emotion flashed across Odin’s face, a fleeting thing quickly buried beneath his usual mask of regal apathy. “That is not true. I have always cared, Loki.”

“Oh?”, the trickster smirked, as if enjoying the punchline of a private joke, “Have you?”

“I have”, he replied with conviction, “Do you honestly believe that I enjoy seeing you like this, imprisoned here, with this scum? Your sentence was not an easy decision for me.”

Loki’s lips twisted into a scowl. “You must forgive me if I find it difficult to find sympathy for your plight, Allfather.”

Not willing to be drawn into a fight, Odin moved to change the subject. The king’s sharp gaze raked over his son’s features, taking in drawn and sickly-pale skin, and dull eyes drowning in heavy shadow.  

“Have you been eating enough?”, he asked, his incisive stare never once moving away from Loki’s face, “You look as if you have lost weight since I saw you last-”

“Why should you _care_ , old man?”, spat Loki, fed up with the feigned pleasantries, “Why are you bothering to keep up this ridiculous pretense? There is no reason for it. You have nothing to gain from pretending you care about my welfare.”  

Odin frowned. “Must a father have a reason for asking after his son’s well-being?”

“But, I am _not_ your son“, Loki put in, his tone completely matter-of-fact, “You told me so yourself, Allfather, remember? I am nothing more than a failed experiment at keeping the frost giants docile, and safely beneath your tyrannical boot heel.”

“Those are the words of a blind and spiteful fool!”, Odin challenged, his blue eye blazing, “Perhaps, if you could see the pain your loved ones endured in your absence, then you would not be so quick to discard their affections now!”    

The trickster dropped his gaze, his features tight with unexpressed emotion.

Looking up at his pale, grim-faced son, the Allfather breathed a heavy sigh, forcing himself to calm down. His heart constricted as he saw in this damaged, angry figure an echo of the boy who had been, a tall, gangly creature with a wide, mischievous grin and warm, expressive green eyes.  

“You are a part of this family, Loki, as ever you have been, regardless of blood ties, regardless of past deeds or indiscretions”, he went on, his tone notably gentler than it had been moments before, “You are my son, mine and Frigga’s, just as you are Thor’s brother. You should know such simple truths by now.”

“I know _nothing_ ”, Loki said quietly, looking away, “Not anymore. I know I _was_ a prince, second in line to the throne of Asgard, greatest of all the realms. Now, I have become nothing more than a monster and a villain, lowly Jotun refuse, as it turns out, reviled even by my own filthy people.”

“You are not a monster”, Odin replied sagely, “Nor will I have you paint yourself as a wicked, irredeemable villain, capable only of evil deeds. For my son has ever had a kind and steadfast heart.”

The trickster laughed under his breath, his lips pulling back into a rictus grin. “I am truly impressed with your honeyed lies, Allfather. They would almost be believable, were they not so far-fetched.”

Odin’s single blue eye was steady upon his son’s leering visage. “I speak only truth, now. For there have surely been enough lies between the two of us to last several lifetimes.”

The cruel smile slowly melted from Loki’s face, only to be replaced by a fixed mask of simmering anger. “Indeed, there have. One might even say that untruths form the very foundation of our relationship. You have been lying to me since the beginning, about my heritage, about my place in the family, about… everything, really. And yet, somehow, _I_ was the one named Liesmith by the people of Asgard.” There was a bitter edge to his words, like foul curdle settling over stale cream. “Liesmith. The moniker seems to fit you much better, does it not? For _your_ lies were always far more grievous and manipulative than my own ever were. After all, you preyed upon the trust of an innocent child, one who would have given a piece of his soul for a small hint of your paternal regard.”      

As he spoke, he recalled thousands of small wounds, countless exclusions, times when he had been passed over, neglected, scorned, Odin’s eye moving over him as if he were not even present, always to land upon his puling idiot of a brother instead.

The trickster’s arms crossed over his thin chest and he widened his stance slightly. No matter what, the Allfather would be forced to see him now, whether he wanted to or not.

“Loki”, Odin said slowly, his voice weary, and rather sad, “I did not come here to rile your anger, nor to assign blame-“  

            “I am certain you did not”, the trickster viciously spat, “If _I_ were the one to assign blame, you would surely be forced to hear some uncomfortable truths.”  

            “Uncomfortable truths?”, Odin closed his eyes, “I am sure that I would.”

            Taken off guard by the simple admonition, Loki’s savage response died on his tongue. He studied the Allfather closely, suddenly noticing how old he looked, a hunched and gray figure, leaning heavily on his staff.  

“You must understand, my son”, Odin spoke carefully, taking the time to collect his thoughts, “the year we thought you… lost to us, it gave me much time to think. I asked myself, over and over, ‘where did things go wrong?’, and I came to recognize many things as a result of this introspection.” Loki watched the aged king intently, his features drawn, and emotionless. “I realized, thinking back on my treatment of you, that I should have been more attentive, should have intervened when the others were ignoring you or being cruel, should have gotten more involved in your studies and encouraged your magic, rather than brutishly forcing you into the fighting ring.” The Allfather looked away, wiping a hand across damp, red-rimmed eyes. “Hindsight is a terrible thing, my son. Terrible indeed.”

“It is, Allfather”, Loki replied quietly, “And I am pleased you came to learn the truths you did. But as far as I am concerned, your newly-acquired understanding means nothing. You should have known such things long ago, when they actually mattered.”

Odin breathed deeply and straightened his back, donning his pride like a protective cloak. “That is true. I should have known. I should have been a better father, to a son in need. I was not, however. I failed you. And you should know, Loki, that I have never regretted anything more, in all my long, long life.”    

“What is the point in telling me all of this?”, Loki asked, his eyes burning fiercely upon the wizened figure standing before his cell, “Did you think that a few insignificant words would be sufficient to lessen the compounded slights of a thousand years?”

“Words may not be the grand offering you had envisioned from me, but they are a beginning, my son”, the Allfather replied, “And every beginning leads somewhere.”

The trickster stared at the old king for a very long moment, his expression unreadable, despite the obviously-conflicted thoughts moving in rapid succession behind his eyes.

“I will admit, it was a well-spoken apology. But one offered far too late, I am afraid”, he said softly, starting to turn away.

            “Nonsense!”, Odin protested, “You are here, my son, back from the very clutches of the Void itself. You live. It is certainly _not_ too late for reparations, nor for reconciliation, or for forgiveness-”

            “How _dare_ you?!”, the trickster rapidly twisted around, furious and seething with righteous indignation, “How dare you come here, smugly demanding that I forgive you, when you deserve no such thing?”, he snarled, “And why should I do the same for any of the people of Asgard? They, who laughed behind their hands or accused me of foul trickery as I sat upon the throne, in the absence of any other legal regent. Ah, but Asgardians have always been quick to accuse, and quick to judge, without _knowing_. And yet, you are ordering me to return to your feasting table once again, to sit passively next to the very people that spurned and despised me my entire life?”

          “Do not be a fool!”, Odin interrupted, frustrated, “I _demand_ nothing of you, my son, except that you continue to recover, and to serve out the remainder of your sentence quietly, and without incident. All the rest will come with time.”

            Loki chuckled, an ugly, broken sound. “Yes, time. I do have a great deal of that at my disposal. I wonder how long it shall take to break me, to force me into the accepted Aesir mold of a second prince whose only activities consist of feasting and fucking and hunting and killing? I know it would certainly please you if I conformed to such standards.  Perhaps then, I would be more like Thor.”

Odin raked a hand back through his long white mane, irritation very evident. “The only thing that would please me, Loki, would be to have my family together and whole once more. Because we are not whole, nor happy, Loki. Not without you.” He sent his son a meaningful gaze. “I tire of seeing your brother downtrodden, loping silently through the halls, constantly losing in the training rings. I tire of hearing your mother weep at night, after she thinks I have fallen into sleep. I tire of the pall that has fallen over the House of Odin. It is draining, and it saps the spirit.”

“Is that so?” Loki tried to sound apathetic, but he didn’t quite manage it. His voice, normally so arrogant and cold, shook imperceptibly.

“It is”, Odin responded firmly, “We have had enough dissension between us for a lifetime. It is time to heal our bond, and begin anew.”

The old king began readying himself to depart. He called out a quick command over his shoulder to the waiting company of guards, who immediately opened ranks in the center so the Allfather could walk in their midst.

“Please, my son, I ask you to think over everything I’ve said here today. I was in earnest.”

            Loki said nothing in reply to this, making no promises one way or the other.

            Odin turned, and began making his way towards the company of elite soldiers.

            Suddenly, however, he paused, saying over his shoulder, “I’ll send your regards to your mother, and to Thor, yes? They’ll be happy to know you haven’t forgotten them.”  

            The trickster watched numbly as the Allfather and his golden entourage left the same way they had come, slowly ascending into the shadows of the darkened stairwell, as if they had never been there at all.

            Once they had safely vanished from his sight, the trickster cast an illusion over the cell, a convincing double of himself, lying on the cot and staring listlessly up at the ceiling. Hiding behind his magic, he collapsed weakly to the floor in the corner, his legs incapable of supporting him anymore.

            Shaking, he stared blindly ahead, trying not to let any of Odin’s words penetrate the emotionless shell he had built up over many long, torturous months in confinement.

The old man was lying, he reminded himself. He had to be. He didn’t care, nor had he ever. Loki was nothing more than a pawn to him, a pawn made useless now.

He knew that Frigga was disgusted by him. She had made that abundantly clear in the way she had swept out from his cell, a flurry of golden fabrics and flaxen tresses, and not returned since.

She would never weep over him.

As for Thor… he hated him, now. If he was acting downtrodden, and losing in the fighting rings, then it surely had to do with something else. Probably a woman, or an affront to his precious honor.

Never Loki, his lost, mad Jotun brother.

He closed his eyes, trying to ignore the light stream of tears leaking down his pale cheeks.

            Loki. The Trickster, the Silvertongue, the Sly One.

The Monster. The Forgotten Prince.

These truths were as immutable, as they were cruel.

They were a varied collection of humiliations, suffered by no other Aesir.

But that was his lot, he supposed. His place.

The more he thought on it, it was a punishment, all its own.

 

 

           

           

 

               

 

 

 

 

 

 

           


End file.
